


sanctuary

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Sex, Bottom Castiel, Camp Chitaqua, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Top Dean Winchester, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was times like this when Dean almost forgot there was an apocalypse raging outside, tarnishing every inch of the globe like wildfire, like a disease. He loved to see the angel like this, blissed out, lost in a trance. There were only two things that made Castiel glaze over like this, made him sweaty and loose and pliable. Weed, and sex. Right now, he had both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i wrote this in like 30 minutes because i love this image tbh and so it hasn't been proofread. there just aren't enough fics of endverse destiel having slow and non-angsty sex (◕‿◕✿)

It was times like this when Dean almost forgot there was an apocalypse raging outside, tarnishing every inch of the globe like wildfire, like a disease. It was July, and the rain pattered against the wood and glass, a storm brewing. They were lucky enough to get a warning from the dark clouds manifesting on the horizon, giving them time to put waterproof sheets over their supplies, their armoury, their rock salt. Sometimes, storms came without warning or snow would fall in August, or droughts would hit in winter. The seasons had gone, and with it any chance of growing crops, cultivating land or nurturing animals. Lucifer was torturing them, like ants under a microscope, watching them burn.

But none of that mattered, not now.

The sound of rain drumming on the glass was practically inaudible save for when the music dipped or the wind howled, curling its tendrils around the wooden walls, vibrating through the cabin. Castiel was one of the few people on the camp who had managed to get hold of an old stereo, a battered and crackly thing it was, but it worked nonetheless. The thrum of an old song drifted through the cabin, sneaking into every crevice like a thick and comforting warmth that broke the silence. Dean recognised the song, an old, early 1960s melody, but he couldn’t name it. Not like that was the first thing on his mind anyway.

The cabin smelt like incense and weed, a smoky haze drifting through the air. The only light, save from the moonlight spilling through the cracks in the scraps of fabric used for curtains, was from the candles dispersed randomly throughout the cabin, on any spare surface. The candlelight created irregular shadows, unusual and curious, across the wooden walls, shuddering and crackling with the shivers of the cabin, the flicker of the light. Abnormal shadows usually had Dean reaching for his gun, eyes wide and looking for croats, for demons, for _him_ but not this time. This time he was focused elsewhere.

On Castiel. Beautiful, broken, debauched Castiel. _His_ Castiel.

Dean was splayed out on Castiel’s bed, on the luxurious and silk sheets, head resting on the array of old, soft pillows scattered against his headboard. Castiel, without doubt, had the best bed in the camp, but even now it creaked beneath their weight. Dean’s hands were on Castiel’s waist, not gripping, just caressing, letting Castiel set the pace as he sat in the hunter’s – no, the leader’s – lap, sinking down onto his cock.

He couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t doing this.

Castiel’s head lolled forward, rocking his hips, wearing nothing but a thin grey shirt, hanging open to reveal his chest, the sheen of sweat that set on his skin. Dean could do nothing else but stare, only just able to hear the music over the thudding of his pulse in his ears, and the moans slipping from Castiel’s lips. He loved to see the angel like this, blissed out, lost in a trance. There were only two things that made Castiel glaze over like this, made him sweaty and loose and pliable. Weed, and sex. Right now, he had both.

Groaning softly, Castiel rocked his hips, ass flush against Dean’s hips as his cock nudged against the angel’s prostate. The joint hung from his bottom lip, a thin trail of smoke coming from the end, eventually drifting into nothing. It took all of his willpower not to thrust upwards, not to flip Castiel over and fuck hard into him until he came so hard he saw stars. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, not when Castiel looked so beautiful with his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and his eyes hooded with pleasure.

Castiel rolled his hips again, sliding up so Dean’s cock slipped almost from him, catching his rim, before he sunk back down onto it, drawing a long and high-pitched groan from the ex-angel’s lips. Castiel’s cock twitched at the feeling, smearing a thin line of precome across his defined abdomen. Dean remembered a day when those lines of muscle didn’t exist, but Castiel had fallen since then, had become a victim to the fragility of humanity as much as anyone else.

Sometimes, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing, especially now, in moments like this. With Castiel’s head thrown backwards, joint hanging from his mouth, flushed and sweaty, drizzling precome onto his stomach as he fucked himself back onto Dean’s cock. The candlelight flickered, an array of light dancing across Castiel’s sweat-slick skin, defining the angel’s lines in an almost ethereal way. Dean tried to ignore the irony in that.

“Fuck…” Castiel breathed when the head of Dean’s cock brushed his prostate again, sending shivers creeping up the ex-angel’s spine. His muscles fluttered, clenched around Dean’s cock, drawing a hitched breath, a moan, from the hunter’s lips. Dean dug his nails into the hard lines of Castiel’s lips, grunting with each roll of Castiel’s hips. His movements were agonizingly slow, setting Dean’s body ablaze with frustration and need and pleasure.

The song changed, another old melody, at least 50 years old, but more fast paced than the last – only marginally but it was enough. Castiel fell forward, fingers tangling in the sheets by Dean’s head, clutching, as he moved his hips faster, fucking himself back onto Dean’s cock fast. The bed creaked and groaned under the movement as Castiel’s head fell forward, eyes closed.

Dean stared at him through the semi-darkness, grunting, pushing his hips up, bottoming out inside of Castiel’s tight hole. “Baby,” he growled, “look at me, baby, wanna see you.”

The angel opened his eyes, joint still hanging from his bottom lip, staring into the hunter’s eyes. It took all of Dean’s strength not to come right then; Castiel’s blue was eclipsed completely by the mixture of his drug-induced high, his lust, and the darkness curling around them.

“Fuck,” Dean gasped, tightening his grip on Cas’ hips, “so beautiful. You look so fucking beautiful, Cas, gonna – shit, you’re gonna make me come. Are – are you gonna come on my cock, baby?”

Castiel nodded, whimpering at that, eyes sliding shut again. Dean didn’t blame him; he knew the weed made him languid, lazy. He started rocking his hips faster, ass slapping against Dean’s hips, the sound of skin-on-skin almost drowning out the music. Castiel’s cock was flush against his abdomen, shiny with precome, red and swollen. Dean knew, just from the sight, that the angel was going to come untouched, just from his cock alone. He shifted his hips, only a little, just to ensure that his cock brushed against the bundle of nerves in Castiel with every movement.

The angel gasped, letting out a high pitched whine, letting him know that he was hitting that spot. The joint almost fell from his lips, dangling a little as Castiel fucked down on him harder, letting out a high and broken whimper with every movement of his hips. Debauched and filthy moans, a litany of curse words drifted through the room and Dean would’ve laughed. Laughed because it was impossible, unimaginable, that an angel – and one as righteous as Castiel, no less – would make such unholy and sinful noises, sinking down onto Dean’s thick cock.

Dean slid his hands round to Castiel’s ass, holding on as the angel sped up, his movements sporadic and irregular, pulling whines and grunts from them both. The heat built in Dean’s gut, blazing through every inch of his body and he started to thrust his hips upwards, fucking into Castiel’s tight heat, chasing his release.

“Cas, baby, fuck, I’m–“ he groaned, teetering on the precipice of orgasm, cock throbbing inside Castiel’s hole.

The angel looked at him, eyes hooded, glazed over and blown wide, sweaty and flushed. “ _Dean_ ,” he said the word like a prayer, like the last call of a desperate man, like it was everything and more, broken and cracked with lust, and it was enough to push Dean over the edge. He arched his back, hips flush against Cas’ ass, as he came hard, grunting and spilling into the ex-angel’s hole.

Castiel fucked him through it, rocking back on his cock to pull the last ropes of come from him. He was staring down at Dean, trembling from the force of holding back his own orgasm just to watch Dean come. He muttered the command, his blessing to let Castiel come, and with one last rock of his hips, he did. He sank down onto Dean’s cock, crying out his name and throwing his head back, painting Dean’s and his own abdomen with ropes of white, hot and sticky.

It was times like this that Dean forgot about the apocalypse. With Castiel straddling his lap, riding his cock, sweaty and flushed and debauched in the candlelight, high from the sex and the weed, trembling for him. The angel almost collapsed on him, only just remembering the joint before he fell onto him. He put it out on the ashtray on his nightstand before collapsing on the sheets beside Dean, trembling and whining with every exhale of breath.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Dean hushed, wrapping his arms around the now-human. Dean knew that Castiel’s comedowns were always oversensitive when he was high, but he didn’t mind. He pulled Castiel into his arms, wrapping the sheets around them, pressing soft kisses to his sticky, sweat-slick skin.

“You’re okay, you’re safe.” He promised, even though he knew it wasn’t true. How he could promise that, when every day could be their last? But it didn’t matter, because Castiel believed it, and in moments, the angel was gone, slipping away into unconsciousness, a trancelike state induced by the sex and the weed. He peppered Castiel’s forehead, his temple, his jawline with kisses.

“I love you.” He whispered into the darkness, but he knew Castiel wasn’t awake to hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> not my best work but idk i needed this image in my life


End file.
